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Cover & Excerpt

Storm Warned
by Dani Harper
Grim series Book Three

Passionate musicians Caris and Liam grew up centuries apart. When their fates collide, they must learn to trust each other and join forces to stop a dark force from seizing both Fae and human worlds.

When Caris’s unearthly musical talent attracts the attention of the Wild Hunt, the Welsh farm girl is stolen away to serve as a faery grim, a herald of death. Two centuries later, she’s finally escaped back to the human world—and into the present-day life of a reclusive and heartbroken American musician.

Music was Liam’s whole life—until a crushing betrayal left him desperate to flee the public eye. Yet long-dormant passions awaken after a powerful storm strands a beautiful, strong-willed woman on his isolated farm. When a Fae prince bent on ruling both human and Faery realms threatens Caris’s life, Liam must decide if he can finally believe in love again, not just for her sake—but for the sake of two worlds.

From the best-selling author of Changeling Moon, this sweeping and passionate story of paranormal romance follows two souls from centuries apart who lost everything . . . and found that only love can save them.

Genre: Paranormal Romance
Content/Theme(s): Fantasy, Fae, Musicians, Faeries, Magic, Celtic mythology
Release Date: March 31, 2015
Publisher: Montlake Romance

Excerpt & More

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Excerpt:
The forest seemed far darker than it should. It wouldn’t be the first time Caris had stayed too long, lost in her music, but a break in the trees revealed ominous clouds overhead that doused the bright daylight as surely as water doused a fire. It was a long way back to the farm, and she could find her way there blindfolded if need be—yet a mountain storm was nothing to trifle with.

A flash of lightning half blinded her. Thunder crashed like the world was ending, and her steady, dependable pony did something unheard of: he threw his rider and bolted for home. By the time she got her breath back, her mount was long gone. Caris got to her feet slowly and with care. Nothing broken or sprained, thankfully, but she’d have some bumps and bruises on the morrow.

The wind had picked up, thrashing the limbs of the trees, and above the din, the mournful horn wailed like a lost soul. She’d never heard the like of it, and the hairs on the back of her neck prickled.

It’s coming this way.

Caris saw nothing unusual in the dim forest. The storm above, bearing down on her with incredible speed, was something else entirely. The blackened clouds roiled like an angry sea, lit within by flares of unnatural lightning—green and blue and vivid mauve.

I’ll never make it to the farm. But staying among the trees in such weather was a poor plan. There was little other shelter to be had—unless she went to the dolmen. On their way to their campsite each year, the Romani waved bits of red cloth at the ancient stone structure and spat in its direction, giving it as wide a berth as the rutted forest paths would allow. Evil or not, Caris hoped the great white capstone, supported by three half-buried boulders, would shield her, and she ran as fast as she could in its direction. Her heart was in her throat as the wind whipped her long black hair free and yanked at her clothing with invisible fingers. Lightning struck behind her, close enough that she could feel the ground shake, and she nearly lost her footing.

As the clap of thunder died away, instinct made her cast a glance over her shoulder, and what she saw did make her stumble and fall: great coal-black hounds of monstrous size were bounding in her direction, their red and glowing eyes revealing their identity: grims!

Panicked, she scrambled to her feet. The dark fae dogs, called barghest or gwyllgi by some, were said to foretell one’s death, but they weren’t the most frightening thing she saw. Following the hounds were forty or fifty riders—and their horses’ hooves didn’t touch the earth!

She was completely surrounded by the otherworldly company before she could scream.

Caris choked down her fear and forced herself to stand still, her hands in front of her gripping each other so hard that they hurt. She needed the pain to help keep her wits together. All these years she’d thought the Wild Hunt was just a story to frighten children into being good, and that the Tylwyth Teg, the Fair Ones, were nothing but make-believe. She knew, however, that many of her neighbors believed them to be real—real enough that they set offerings of bread and milk on their porches at night to avert fae pranks and beg their favor. Even the preacher must have thought them real, as he occasionally spoke out against the evils of consorting with demons and faeries. Perhaps he thought them to be one and the same. Whatever they were, no one wanted to actually meet them.

But here she was.
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